Deep River

Toronto, CANADA

I lie all the time.
I lied to Mrs. Cornish from the tenth floor when I assured her that I walked her dog three times a day and watered her precious plants while she went to Vancouver to win the money for her nephew’s sad, life-or-death operation (or her own voluntary plastic surgery - I’m not exactly sure).
I lied to the co-op board of my family’s apartment building. Mainly about my mom’s tendency to “forget” to pay the rent. I’d said she’ll pay up as soon as she gets the money saved from her shitty job waitress-ing at the cheap hole-in-the-wall restaurant down the street. I didn’t bother saying if she’d pitch in any money she’d make from her few singing gigs. The money she earns from those are usually specially set aside for what Mom likes to call her “emergencies-only“ stash. And by emergencies, I mean whenever her seemingly endless supply of cigarettes begins to run dangerously low. Monkeys will come flying outta my butt if Mom ever comes up with the dough in time for the next rent check.
I lied to Grandma Edith on the phone last June when I gushed that I positively loved that piss-yellow cardigan she sent to me for my birthday. It’s honestly not like I’m going to come straight out with it and say, “No offence, Grandma, but this thing looks exactly like what Sock barfed up after I let him eat two whole s’mores pop tarts last Saturday morning.” (That was after we ran out of cat food and didn’t have enough money to buy more). Telling your grandmother that her birthday present has the uncanny resemblance to your cats barf is so not cool.
I also lied to Grandma Edith every time I told her that I loved her. That’s not to say I’m some evil, ungrateful, devil child. I have my reasons. I mean, it’s not my fault she hates me just because I happen to like Moms mashed potatoes better than hers.
I lied to one of the top high school councilors in the entire country last April. I remember because it was when me and Mom were living in a trailer park in Halifax, right before we made the move to Toronto. I’d said that I care about my future and education. Truth? I couldn’t care less about that whole “the right education matters” bull shit. Even if I do get around to graduating from high school (whenever and wherever that may be…), I’ll still be living the life I’ve always lived; moving from place to place, city to city, with Mom, working shit jobs that pay shit money. End of story. The way I figure it, if I’m not bothered by living in complete ruin now, what are the odds I will in the next ten years or so?
I lied to the hefty bartender tonight at “Tony’s Place” when I forked over my fake ID in exchange for one Singapore Sling - preferably on the rocks. (And just for the record, my name is not Prudi-Lee Ferguson and no, I am not from Brampton, Ontario like it says in bold print on my said fake ID- Nor am I nineteen years of age. I am seventeen; which you may recall is not the legalized age to purchase alcoholic drinkage. Hence the convenience of the twice-said fake ID…). I figured Mom deserved some much-needed

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cheering up that only a daughter could give. The set had been a bad one and watching Mom take down the equipment with the help of the next gig‘s equipment bitch, it was obvious she knew it. I didn’t think it mattered much since the sound was loud and scratchy and everyone kept drinking and smoking and shouting and - hey- there’d even been a bit of dancing. I doubted the manager minded the half-hearted performance seeing as he hadn’t kicked Mom off the stage or anything. But still, I could tell Mom wasn’t exactly happy with the night‘s outcome. She’d just about had to swim all the way across the Humber to snare a gig at this hip, fat-cat, cave of a club, instead of singing at some shitty no-name bar in Scarborough . And she’d totally blown it. Her big chance, I mean; of getting some major publicity and recognition out of this high-rise stint. But that’s life for you…
By the time the next gig is fully loaded and ready to create some killer noise, Mom is at the bar, sitting beside me on one of those high-backed chrome bar stools you usually only see in chic-bars in made-for-TV movies. She’s got an elbow propped up on the bar, a newly lit cigarette dangling from her hand. I’m noticing how she’s able to look exhausted and pissed and pathetic and livid all at once. But despite the fact that her usually wild and outta-control hair is hanging all limp in her eyes and her eyeliner’s smudged and her lipstick is all messed-up and smeared round the edges by-way-of Joker from Batman, I still think she looks really pretty. I’m actually willing to bet my entire last pay check - (earned exclusively from delivering Chinese food for Fat Wong’s…) - that any random dude partying in this bitchin’ club tonight would mistake Mom for a teenager and not, in fact, for the mother of one.
“Thanks, honey.” Mom says, indicating towards the pretty drink on the bar. Her voice is hoarse from the night of singing. She takes a long, savory sip of her Sling. When she finally puts the glass down, half the pink booze is gone and there is a faint cherry-red lipstick stain on the rim.
“You were great tonight, Mom,” I say. My second lie of the night. Or is it my third…?
She looks at me like I’ve just lost my marbles or something. That, or I’m one of those sad little cancer kids you always see on the news.
“Baby, you know I don’t like it when you lie to me…”
“Mom, I’m not lying to you. Honestly. I thought you were totally bitchin’ up there tonight.”
Hmmm…lying about a lie. Don’t think I’ve ever done that one before.
She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t waste your time trying to protect my feelings. I was shit and you know it, Cam.”
She’s right. I do.
Mom takes a measured drag from her cigarette before muttering, “Got any money on you?”
I shrug and dig deep into my jeans pocket. I pull out a crumpled fiver and hand it over. Of course, Mom probably knows I have more where that came from. Delivering Chinese food might pay shit but it still pays better than being a club singer.

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Mom slaps the bill onto the table, obviously in the mood for some more drinkage, even though she still has yet to finish off her Sling. I’m praying to God she doesn’t plan
on drinking her sorrows away tonight, something she usually does after a particularly
crappy performance. I don’t know about you, but having to drag your own, drunk-off-her
ass mom out of a bar only to have her throw up all over your new shoes is so not my idea of a fun night.
“Go put the guitar in the car now.” Mom orders me hoarsely before calling out to the leering bartender to stir her up a Fuzzy Naval and to please not hold back on the peach schnapps, thank you very much.
Yeah. And you’re fucking welcome for the dough, Mother-dearest. Right.
I pick up Mom’s ancient guitar case that’s propped up against her bar stool. I don’t know why she brought it with her tonight. I mean, the place already has a band set up for independent singers and everything. I highly doubt some soft acoustic would’ve really fit in with this sort of crowd, anyway . But nevertheless, I hop off the barstool and dutifully lug Mom’s precious instrument through the crowd and towards the exit. The band that’s up onstage now are called the Fuck-Me’s (lovely, right?) and I gotta admit, they’re not nearly as crappy as their name implies. Their lead singer, a greasy-haired dude who looks old enough to be my dad, is actually singing instead of moaning or screaming himself hoarse. The crowd is eating their lyrics up like Mac’n ’cheese; (I’m in you/and you’re in me/and I’m so all over you/and this is the way it‘s gotta be). Major shit lyrics if you ask me, but whatever. Evidently these sophisticated Torontonian’s have got a different sort of music taste in their laser-whitened-teeth-lined mouths.
The crowd parts for me, separating so I can get through easily enough. I thank God that I don’t have to shove and claw my way to reach the club’s exit, like I‘ve had to at so many clubs not-like this one. I mean, it’s almost like I’m that dude in the bible- Moses, I think - parting the Red Sea. I say almost because there’s still the few ass-holes that are so doped-up and drugged-up and wasted and plastered that they can barely stand, let alone get the hell outta my way. Such people should not be in a club like this. Ol’ Tony should be given a good talking to about standards vis-à-vis of owning and operating a club. Sure, I’ll give him some credit for being able to snag some decent talent for entertaining his stage, but obviously the man doesn’t know shit about running such a high-class business. Look at the underage Scarborough scum-bags he lets in! No doubt ol’ Tony even comps beers for the truly sublime band-members. Even me, a total Punk, ripped-jeans-and-hoody-wearing, Jewish-but-not-really, borderline-dirt-poor, bitch-from-planet-Schizophrenia, potty-mouth can see where he’s gone wrong with managing this place! It’s rather disgraceful.
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I have to dodge three slurring drunks and two hallucinating crack-heads before I can get safely outside. The cool, early September air is a brief relief from the smoky, noisy club - even though it’s stinking with pollution and exhaust-fumes and the subway. The familiar smells of the city. It takes me only a few minutes to unlock Mom’s prehistoric Camero -
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(affectionately nick-named “Betsy”) - and safely tuck the guitar in for the night. I decide
I’d better head back into the club and get Mom off her ass and into the car, ASAP, especially before some random shmuck lacking in the moola department decides to take a chance at smashing the windows and making off with the guitar or the dozens of CD’s lying on the floor in the backseat . Common knowledge is to never leave a car unattended in Toronto. The last time Betsy got broken into, a secondhand coat and a bag of towels from Wal-Mart had been stolen. Why someone would bother breaking into a car just for some raggedy jacket and a couple of itchy towels, I’ll never know.
The bored-looking girl checking ID’s at the door takes a good long look at me when I head back into the club. I thank de Lord she doesn’t stop me or say anything. She’s doing a shitty job at keeping the riff-raff out, I can tell as much. Shit boss, shit staff…
Mom is no longer in her seat when I return to the bar. To my horror, all there is, is a half empty Fuzzy Naval in the place where she once sat. Damn. I pray to God I haven’t accidentally lost Mom while I was putting her precious guitar to bed. Maybe she just went to the Ladies to detox her system…
I glance round the club as the in-between-set mass of people swarm past/through/into me like I’m a ghost with the inconvenience of pliable flesh getting in their way on the way to the beer. I bet right now I look exactly like that lost animal who goes around asking “Are you my mother?” in that kid book. I’ve got to find Mom.
It totally sucks because I’m only 5-foot-4 on tippy-toes and I’m surrounded by people who are at least six-foot. Screw my shortness.
In my desperation, I hop up onto a barstool. I figure that’s the only way I’ll find Mom with all these people and this loud music and this stink sweat and this beer an’ dope energy, without having to search the Ladies room just yet. I’m having a hell of a time trying to steady myself. I just barely resist the urge to place my hand on the person-nearest-to-me’s head in an effort to balance myself. Seriously, how awkward would that be, having to explain to some random shmoe that I’m trying to find my mom, like I’m some kind of five year old?
Then…There she is! I see Mom talking to some put-together looking dude who’s holding a clipboard and a fifty dollar bill out in the open at a corner table by the brick wall just off the stage, to the right of the old-greasy-haired guy from the Fuck-Me’s who is once again taking the mic. I don’t know what song his band had originally prepared but the lyrics he’s singing now are clearly being made-up on the spot.
(Turn around and look at me/I need you so bad/so bad I wanna scream.)
I jump down off the barstool and take off toward Mom. When I am finally in hearing/seeing distance of them, I can hear/see that both are quiet angry, obviously with each other. I know trouble when I see it.
“Fifty?” I can hear mom shouting above the music. “I come here and sing my ass off for half the night and all I get is a fucking fifty?” That’s the thing about Mom. She’s never subtle.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize Mom and the dude - who I’m beginning to gather is the manager himself - are arguing over the pay she just earned from tonight’s gig. Evidently fifty bucks is hardly a sufficient price for Mom.
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The manager is able to look calm and composed while saying to a fuming Mom,
”Look, lady, fifty is all you deserve after a shit performance like tonight. Normally I
would pay you more, but the crowd wasn’t exactly satisfied and this is a get-what-you-
pay-for type of business. Besides, you don’t see any of the other shit performers complaining about their pay. So suck the fuck up.”
This does not go well with Mom.
“You cheap bastard. You and all the other people in this fucking business are a bunch of fucking low-life crooks. I oughta sue…”
Gee, Mom that’s a great idea. Too bad we cant afford a lawyer let alone afford enough cat food to feed Sock for a solid week . This is typical Mom for you; making threats she cant possible carry out.
“Lady, I’m warning you. Calm the fuck down or get the hell outta my club before I ring up the cops for public disturbance charges…”
This dude has gotta be off his rocker. I mean, threatening a slightly pissed-off lady with a public disturbance charge? In a club? Where meanwhile the majority of people in this place are so drunk off their asses that they can barely stand. And that’s not even counting all the crack-heads who are so high that I can honestly say I heard one of them mutter a little something about Puff the Magic Fucking Dragon. I am not joking.
This place is a total bomb waiting to go off, I swear.
I decide I better check into my alter-ego, Super Cam; dutiful protector of her mother’s ass. I jump right into the midst of things.
“Hey, Mom, don’t you think it’s about time we, you know, left?” I say, beginning to tug at her arm.
C’mon, Mom, you can do it. Come with Cam now and leave the big man alone before he calls the cops…or worse.
But no, Mom does not listen, nor does she even acknowledge me tugging on the sleeve of her leather jacket. She swats me away like I’m some sort of pesky fly instead of her daughter.
“Public disturbance charges?” she seethes. “Are you shitting me?”
“Lady, I’m only giving you one more warning; take the fifty and get the fuck outta here or else. Got it?” He holds out the bill so she can take it.
But, no, Mom doesn’t move an inch.
“This is bull shit,” She continues. “Absolute bull shit.”
“Lady…”
That’s it. Drastic times call for drastic measures. I snatch the bill from the mans unsuspecting hand. I grab onto Mom’s sleeve once again, this time intent on not letting go.
I flash the manager a huge grin. “Thanks, man. We’ll be heading out now. No need to call the cops or anything, right?” I say, daring a wink. I pull at Mom’s jacket a little, indicating that it’s about time we left. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s leave the busy man to his work. I’m sure he must be extremely busy tonight, scheming people outta their pants and all.”
Mom begins to mutter bastardization after bastardization under her breath. “… Son-of-
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a-bitch…thinks he can scam me…cheap good-for-nothing bastard…”
I almost wanna cry out with relief because she actually listens to me and starts reluctantly
following me outta of the club, with me still clutching at her sleeve and practically pulling her along behind me. YES! Sweet Jesus, thank you…
I stuff the fifty into my already stuffed back pocket with my spare hand. We leave the
manager standing there beside the stage, a pissed-off look written all over his face. I glance over my shoulder to see him write something down on his clipboard before taking out a flashy-looking cell phone from his blazer pocket. He starts punching in numbers.
Oh shit…I figure he‘s either calling up a bouncer or maybe even (gasp) the fuzz. Alright, Cam. Time to hightail it outta this joint.
Me and Mom have to shove our way through the crowd to reach the exit, half tripping,
half running. It almost makes me feel like we’re a couple of good-for-nothing criminal’s running from some major law enforcement who are hot on our trail. This thought adds more excitement to the situation and is beginning to give me a bit of an adrenaline rush - which is an added bonus in it’s own way.
It takes us a minute or two to get through this riot of people and out the exit. Mom sort of moves her arm and links it around my elbow which leaves us in this weird we’re off to see the wizard pose. But it feels like I’m the leader still, leading us out of the club and into the night. I can barely do it now. Lead, I mean. And I’m not even drunk, or, stoned or high or anything. A wave of exhaustion washes over me and I just wanna get Mom into “Betsy” and drive us back to the apartment so then I can quickly feed Sock before crashing onto my mattress and falling into a deep luxurious sleep. I’m getting too old for this…
The sidewalk is full of smokers, talking or posing their way to ash. Me and Mom get a couple of winks and nods and cat-calls. Ordinarily I’d be feeling immensely flattered
by all this, but right now, all I wanna do is just give ‘em the bird and tell ‘em to go jack off some place else. I am in no mood for that sort of shit right now.
I help Mom propel forward to Betsy. I unlock the Camero and put Mom in the passenger seat. She is still fuming, but at least she’s no longer wasting breath on a slew of meaningless curses. I am actually surprised that she is letting me drive her home tonight, without any objection. She usually only lets me drive her when she’s too smashed or wasted to drive herself. I suspect if she got into the driver seat now, she’d most likely slam Betsy into a fancy Porsche or something out of sheer anger.
I get into the driver’s seat, lock in my seatbelt, put the keys in and wait for Betsy to respond the turn of the indignation key. There is the familiar keening of the engine coming to life before the full frontal explosion of noise. Automatically I slam my hand against the stick shift and we just about blow outta here. About fucking time…

3

Half an hour later, I finally pull up into the parking lot in front of the apartment building. The clock on the dashboard reads 1:27 PM. Cheap Trick is belting out “Surrender” on the radio. I feel like I’m in the middle of that scene in Detroit Rock City where Edward
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Furlong, Giuseppe Andrews, Sam Huntington, James DeBello and Natasha Lyonne are all in the Volvo driving to Detroit in the middle of the night to scam their way into that KISS concert - even though this is present day Toronto, and KISS is now gone and Edward Furlong is now a hopeless crack head and we’re now in an era were disco music is long dead (thank God…). I swear, I’m so tired I think I might be on a natural high or something.
Mom doesn’t say anything, even after I park Betsy, turn the indignation off and lock the Camero up. We head into the main lobby of the building. She doesn’t say anything when we both see Mr. Jenkins, the perverted doorman, leering at us as we enter the lobby and head straight for the elevator. She also doesn’t say anything when right before the
elevator closes, I smile sweetly at Mr. Jenkins - who’s still standing across the lobby,
pretending to be busy flipping though the newspaper when really it’s totally obvious that he’s checking out my ass - and flip him the bird. I wonder if Mom knows that the rumors
are true; that Mr. Jenkins steals Mrs. Cornish’s fashion magazines from the garbage-chute room recycle bin. The models in those magazines are like porn for old guys too cheap to buy an internet connection.
I’m beginning to think that there is something seriously wrong with Mom because she doesn’t say anything even when she sees the eviction notice taped to the door of our room. And it’s totally not helping because written in black sharpie underneath the words EVICTED are; “You have exactly twenty-four hours to remove your possessions and belonging from the premises. If you fail to do so, they will be legally seized and confiscated…”
Shit. Not again…
“We better start packing up and making some calls.”
Mom’s quite voice makes me jump. I mean, it’s so unlike Mom to be quite for any
extensive amount of time. It’s border-line creepy, this silence. And it doesn’t even sound like she’s really worried about this particular eviction. Not that I’d really expect her to, anyway. Evictions like this are a fact of life for me and Mom. They just happen and we usually have to figure a way how to deal with them, like most problems in life.
Mom digs into her jacket pocket, pulls out the keys to the room and unlocks the door. She immediately heads for the phone and I automatically head for the piles of clothes and CD’s and stuff lying just about everywhere. I begin to pack all of our crap into plastic bags. It’s almost a routine now, this whole when/if-we-get-evicted plan; Mom goes to call around to see if she can fix us a place to crash while I pack everything up and get it all
decently organized. But despite this typical routine, I still practically have to jam Sock into his cat carrier.
I am in the middle of stacking a bunch of Tori Amos and Three Days Grace CD’s into an empty orange crate when Mom says finally, “Honey, we’re going to have to go to Grandma’s.”
I swear a dagger of immense panic just stabbed through me.
“Why? Did you call her?”
Anything but Grandma Edith’s, anything but Grandma Edith’s…

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I promise I will live in a garbage can like Oscar-the-fucking-Grouch if we please do not
go to Grandma Edith’s in Deep River-the-middle-of-nowhere, Ontario.
Seriously, we should not live with Grandma. She hates cats which is like a mucho mucho problem for Sock. She thinks they crawl onto your face at night on purpose when
you’re sleeping so they can suffocate you. That is totally not true. Sock would never
suffocate me because if he killed me in the event of him sitting on my head while I slept,
he would never get fed because he knows Mom would always forget. And people say that cats aren’t smart…
I mean, me and Mom haven’t so much as visited Grandma Edith once in the five
years we’ve been away from Deep River. Mom barely even talks to Grandma Edith at Christmas before she passes the phone to me. I always assumed the next (and quite possibly the last) time I’ll ever go to Jefferson is for Grandma’s funeral.
“Yeah.” Mom replies off-handedly ” I just woke her up. She was pretty pissed…”
Oh crap…
“But we wont be staying for long. Just until we can get back up onto our feet again.”
I will paper cut myself between my toes like they did on Jackass if we move in with Grandma. I am also totally going to go on a twenty-four hour suicide risk . I am not shitting you, I actually will. I will hang myself from the tree in Grandma’s front yard, if I have to. Then all the neighbors will go by and see me hanging all lifeless from the tree and they will pity me and say, “Tsk. Tsk. Look at what Edith drove her own granddaughter to do. And Cam was such a nice Jewish girl. No one deserved a
grandmother like that. Not even George Bush, and that’s saying something...”
“Get me another cigarette, okay, hon?” Mom asks before tossing a bunch of KISS CD’s into the crate.
Swearing ever curse word that was ever invented under my breath, I light a cigarette for Mom off the stove burner. No point in wasting matches, right?

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Chapter One
Deep River

“…She didn't know how to live in a town that was rough
it didn't take long before she knew she had enough…”
-“Strange Little Girl” Tori Amos

I honest-to-God cant take this any more. I just have to leave, walk out the door. Walk straight out of this impossibly puny-assed town. But it’s like I’ve accidentally over-dosed on Saint- John’s-Wart or something because while its totally normal for me to have eleven different thoughts at once, its definitely unusual to be hearing every single one of them pass through my mind in the time it takes for me to leave a room.

One; Walk. Just walk out of Grandma Edith’s stale-smelling living room and out the front door. Walk. One step at a time. Breath. Focus. Get. Off. The couch. Now. C’mon, you can do it, girl! Or not…

Two; So here are my choices; I can either get my reluctant, lazy ass up off of Grandma’s couch, head out the door, walk the fifteen minutes to Deep River’s downtown area (which isn’t really a downtown at all when you think about it) and catch the 142 bus to Ottawa. Or…I could just sit on Grandma’s ugly floral print couch, watching rerun after rerun of The Simpson’s, while listening to Mom and Grandma have a screaming match in the background. What I should do: Leave. Like right now. What I’d rather do: Watch Homer Simpson repeat his patented “D‘oh!“ line over and over and over again. Sure, its getting old, but that doesn’t mean that it will ever stop being funny.

Three; Mom, please stop calling Grandma an uptight hag. Also, please stop screaming that it’s not her decision whether or not I should start school at St. Patrick’s Catholic High School tomorrow. I am totally on your side that I shouldn’t have to go to school in a dump like this (especially a catholic one), but I’m scared that you’re gonna burst a blood vessel screaming like that…

Four; Grandma, stop accusing Mom of being a pitiful/irresponsible wreck. She already knows she is so it’s not like you need to constantly remind her. Seriously, Grandma. Chill. I so do not want to have to explain to the doctors at the Deep River General Hospital that your heart attack was brought on by a sudden fight you had with your estranged daughter over letting your Jewish-but-not-really granddaughter go to a Catholic school. Please, for the love of God, don’t make me do that.

Five; So are you happy, Mom? I hope you realize that if you hadn’t refused that poison
Ivy League University nearly eighteen years ago in favour of following your wannabe
bad-ass punk boyfriend and his band across the country, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Of course, I probably wouldn’t be here right now if you hadn’t gone on that cross-country
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trip and hadn’t had that one night stand with your boy friend’s now ex-best
friend. But that’s not my point. My point is, this is pretty much all your fault. I hope
you’re regretting turning down Queen’s right about now, Mother-dearest.

Six: They are actually playing Bingo on The Simpson’s. B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-o. What I wanna know is; What the hell does the dog have to do with the game? There has to be a connection, right? I think I might be going insane…

Seven; It’s the shoes. I know it’s the shoes. If I hadn’t bought these stupid, second-hand graffiti’d Vans at that stupid second hand store the day before the eviction, none of this would’ve happened. There’s some bad taboo attached to them, I just know it. The Vans are to blame.

Eight; This is too much. I wanna leave so bad, but I also wanna watch Homer Simpson and the Irish Catholic priest play Bingo …

Nine; I’m so tired. Tired of this past week spent at Grandma’s, dividing my time between doing nothing but watching endless reruns of Friends, Gilmore Girls, and The Simpson’s and eating toaster-pizzas. Tired of the sleepless nights spent in my old room, the room that’s been mine in Grandma’s old house ever since I can remember. Tired of the creepy porcelain dolls that glower down at me from their shelf in that room as I wait for a sleep that will never come. Tired of Grandma and Mom’s constant fights. Tired of being so fucking angry. At Mom. At Grandma. At Grandma’s sadistic widowed next door neighbor, Mrs. Armbrooster, who shoots me the evil eye every time I totally lose it and go outside on Grandma’s front porch for a smoke. Tired of thinking. Tired of thinking of my first day at a St. Patrick’s tomorrow (shudder, shudder). Tired of being tired.

Ten; Why is Grandma glowering at me like that? It’s like she knows something she’s not supposed to know…

Eleven: That’s it. I’ve had enough. I may not leave this house altogether, but I can sure as hell leave this room…

As I pass the kitchen to head for the staircase, I can see Mom sitting at the stained oak table in the kitchen, smushing a cigarette into the Tiffany ashtray in front of her.
“Leave me the hell alone,” I just barely hear her mutter to the ashtray.
“You think I don’t know anything, Lorena? You think you’re the smart one, right?” Grandma’s talking to Mom in that too-sweet voice that would probably make even the freaking Pope wanna strangle her. “If you’re so damn smart, then how come you’re all
alone? How come all those men just used you and left you? How come the only one to
take you in is your stupid old mother? You had so much potential, Lorena. So much…”
“I heard you the first million fucking times, Mom. I don’t need to hear it again”
But Grandma ignores Mom completely.
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“And just look at your daughter! Do you even realize what you’re putting her through?
I’m telling you, if you don’t smarten up soon and begin giving her some discipline, she’ll turn out to be just like you. Pregnant at eighteen with some boy who doesn’t give a damn about her-”.
Way to cross the line Grandma. Prepare to meet the wrath of uber-pissed-off Mom…
“Don’t you dare start on my daughter!” Mom’s sudden vehemence nearly makes me jump. ”She’s just fine! In fact, she’s got more sense than some people more than half her age. So you leave her out of your bitching!”
I begin to head up the stairs, going as quickly and quietly as I can.
Half way up, I catch my reflection in the cracked decorative mirror that’s been nailed to the wall across the landing. My mascara and eyeliner, haphazardly put on this morning - more out of routine than vanity - is all smeared and streaked, making my hazel eyes stand out more than usual. My long dark brown hair looks like a birds nest, - probably because I’ve been too damn lazy to bother styling it properly these past few days. All and all, I pretty much look like Death’s mistress. Or a Punk hooker. I’m not exactly sure
I risk a glance over the railing. Mom is still at the kitchen table. She catches my gaze before rolling her eyes in exasperation and furtively motioning for me to head all the way up the stairs.
“While she is in this house, she’s going to live by the same rules that you lived by when you were her age. I don’t care if she’s spent the last eight odd years living in rat-infested apartments. From now on, the girl’s going to live decent! And that means sending her to a respectable high school so she can graduate like a responsible young adult.”
Grandma seriously needs to ask her doctor about prescribing her some Librium. That, or a good shot of arsenic to put her out of her misery.
I creep the rest of the way up the stairs and head into my room. I close the door as quietly as I can, shutting off the rest of Mom and Grandma’s heated argument.
The army of dolls on the shelf closest to the door scowl down at me threateningly. I imagine them watching my every move. I also imagine them plotting to strangle me while I sleep. Blame it all on Tom Holland’s Chucky. Seriously. After Chucky massacred the baby sitter, I knew I’d never be able to look at a doll the same way again…
The too-small bed and wicker rocking chair seem like they belong to someone else. Ditto to the creaky wooden desk and the antique dresser and the prissy, girly pictures of kittens and ballerina’s on the walls. Especially the pictures. It’s kind of creepy when I think about it; Grandma Edith not bothering to re-decorate this room or anything in all the time me and Mom were away. She could’ve at least taken down the pictures and re-painted the walls…
The only evidence that seventeen year old Cam has taken over seven year old Cam‘s room is the random mounds of CD‘s, clothes, and makeup that have been randomly
dumped on the floor and atop the dresser. My I-pod sits charging on the desk against the
far wall, beside a dog-eared and coffee-stained copy of Stephen King’s classic, “Carrie” -
the one I bought for a buck twenty at a used-book store in Scarborough.
Sock is a curled ball of calico, lying lazily on the quilt spread atop the beds sagging mattress. Shafts of faint light from the full moon stream through the window, bathing him
12

in an eerie luminosity.
I unbutton my torn skinny jeans and kick them off before seizing my baby-blue flannel pajama pants from the mess atop the dresser. I pull them on, liking the feel of the soft fabric brushing against my bare skin. The frayed pant legs only come up to just above my ankles. I figure I probably look like a white female version of Erkle-what’s-his-name. Note to self; invest in a new pair of PJ pants that actually fit. Or maybe I could just steal a pair from Mom. If I can steal a pair of her jeans, I can sure as hell steal a pair of her pajama pants.
The clock on the radio on the night table beside my bed flashes 9:00 PM. I grimace. It’s a Sunday night and I am stuck here in this drafty old house with nothing to do but watch T.V. and listen to Mom and Grandma have a screaming match in the kitchen. I feel like a tucked up grandmother myself, seeing as it’s only nine and I’m still in the house and all. But what’s a poor lonely girl to do? It’s totally not like I’m going to just walk straight out of this house and out into the unfamiliar dark streets where God-knows how many pedophiles could be lurking. But then again, this is Deep River. As in smack-dab-in-the-middle-of-no-where Deep River. As in we-are-accommodated-with-only-the-barest-of bare-necessities Deep River. As in we-have-the-lowest-crime-rate-in-the-entire-province-if-not-the-entire-country Deep River. I wonder if Deep River even has pedophiles, let alone petty thieves...
I am just finishing laying my clothes out on the puny wicker rocking chair for tomorrow when there is a soft knocking at my door. I don’t see why Mom even bothered to knock as she lets herself in anyway - uninvited - when I don’t bother to respond. Nice to know she was able to get away from Grandma alive, though.
“Hey, honey.” she says, closing the door gently behind her before pulling up the chair from my desk and seating herself. When Mom sits down, you know she’s planning on staying for a while. I gather that this means she’s planning on having a little “talk”. Just the two of us. About what though, I have absolutely no idea. It’s not like we really even have anything to talk about. I’m praying to God that she found a place for us to crash. Maybe somewhere in Mississauga. Or maybe even Montreal. I’ve always wanted to live there…
She gives me a tired smile and indicates for me to sit across from her, on the bed. I slowly ease myself onto the mattress.
“Mom, what…?”
But she cuts me off.
“I called up a couple of people from Sweet Pushover today.”
I swear I can feel a flutter of hope in the pit of my stomach. Sweet Pushover was Mom’s friend Cara Smeaton’s band.
“Seriously? Mom, that’s great! Were you able to get us a place to stay?”
“Nah.” Mom says with a shake of her head. “Cara and Liz have this little CD store in Ottawa and I guess business is really picking up so they kind of got more than they can handle at the moment. According to Cara, the others have all gone respectable…”
Damn
That little shred of hope in my stomach is pretty much torn to pieces in a split second.
13

Already I can feel it start to hurt like the bitch it is.
“That sucks.” I mutter. Total understatement.
Mom shrugs. “Damn right it sucks but that’s just two people, right? There are plenty of other people I could try hooking us up with.”
She can probably read the look of utter despair on my face because Mom takes my hand in hers and says, “Honey, don’t worry. We’ll get outta here soon enough. Just give it some time. Be patient. I’d give it about a month at most. No reason to get all upset over it…”
Easy for you to say, I cant help but think spitefully. You’re not the one that has to start at a brand new school tomorrow, one where new kids are treated pretty much like their a fucking alien species. I might as well have the word “outcast” stamped all over me…
Mom is looking so damn hopeful that I don’t bother telling her this. I am not about to crush her optimism with my own problems just yet.
Instead, all I say is “I know” before forcing a lame smile. She seems to buy it because she pats the back of my hand and says. “Just be patient, Cam. We’ll get through this...”
I think Mom should copy right that sentence, she’s said it so many times. It’s like Homer Simpson and the way he’s always saying “D’oh!”. But instead of saying “D’oh!”, Mom just says “We’ll get through this.” I think if Mom was a super hero, that would totally be her catch phrase.
She smiles. “So, baby, school tomorrow. You up for it?”
It’s obvious she’s ready to change the subject and divert my attention away from the depressing question of when/if we’ll ever get out of Deep River.
“You bet.” I say, nodding. Liar, liar, pants on fire… “So, um, do you know if there’s going to be a lot of students at St. Pat‘s?” I ask slowly. “I mean, do you know if it’s gonna be really crowded or is there only going to be a few hundred students, or…?”
Mom sighs. “According to your grandmother there’s only going to be somewhere in the two hundreds attending this year. Last year there’d been about two hundred and thirty or so kids, and supposedly the school was barely able to finance it all, there were so many. Edith says they didn’t even have enough money to build a new wing or anything. Just had to squeeze them all in somehow. Of course there was a town meeting but nothing really came out of that from what she can remember.” I watch as Mom rolls her eyes at that. “Pitiful, I know.” she adds for my benefit.
Oh great. So not only is Deep River really small, but now also my new school is small and under-funded and over crowded and catholic. The absolute perfect topping to my ten layer my-life-sucks cake.
At least if it’s so damn small I won’t get easily lost or anything, right? Maybe just really, really squished…
“Uh huh.” I say. “Did Grandma say anything if there’d be a lot of new kids?”
Mom actually snorts. “Cam, this is Deep River we’re talking about. Even when I was growing up in this shit hole new people in town were as rare as snow in July. I swear, with this town being so damned small and out of the way and in the middle of nowhere….”
Okay. So I just came to the conclusion that I’m not going to fit in all that much - if it
14

all- especially if I’m going to be the only new kid at St. Pat‘s. I mean, way to make me feel like a total freak, right? At least at all the other schools I‘ve been to before, there was always a bunch of new kids coming in every year, sometimes every month. I mean, only in Deep River would a new kid be considered a rarity…
I watch as Mom’s warm brown eyes- so unlike mine- scan over the outfit I picked out for tomorrow. She raises an overly plucked eyebrow.
“Cam, aren’t those my jeans?”
“Uh…maybe.”
“You know I don’t like it when you steal my clothes.”
I have to roll my eyes at that.
“C’mon, Mom. Remember that time you stole my vintage cut t-shirt with Brian Johnson’s autograph on it? I think you owe me for that, especially after you totally destroyed it at that laundro-mat in St. Catherines.”
Mom smirks. “I guess I do owe you, don’t I? Just don’t rip them up like you always do to your jeans. I’d rather not have mine look like they belong to some Salvation Army wearing hobo.”
Note to self; do not tell Mom that I am practically addicted to shopping at the Salvation Army. I mean, where else can you buy a decent pair of jeans for sixty-three cents? Definitely not at any Wal-Mart I know…
“I’ll try not to.” I say, this time my smile genuine. “But I cant promise you anything.”
Mom actually laughs, but it’s a sad, tired sound. I have no idea how she can do it. Being so positive and optimistic when we’ve pretty much blown every chance we’ve got. You seriously gotta give Mom some props now and then…
She reverts her attention back to the outfit.
“I like the shirt.” she says with a nod of approval at my tight fitting t-shirt that reads in huge, italics; “Democracy; Use it or lose it“.
“Good choice for the first day of school. Definitely an outfit you wouldn’t be overly embarrassed to be wearing if you got into an accident or something.”
I wonder if Mom realizes that she sounds exactly like Grandma when Grandma reminds me to always wear clean underwear incase I get into a car accident and have to go to the emergency room. Mom and Grandma are so alike in so many little, insignificant ways that I swear it’s borderline maddening.
“D’you want me to pack your lunch for you?” Mom asks suddenly. This is such a motherly thing to ask that it’s almost shocking that it actually came out of Mom’s mouth.
I decide to throw her a bone.
“Yeah. I don’t care what, just as long as it’s edible. I’m not picky.”
“’Kay.” she releases my hands from hers and slowly stands from the chair, obviously preparing to leave. Huh. She didn’t stay nearly as long as I’d thought she would.
I am expecting her to leave without muttering so much as a good night but instead, she hangs back and does something even more shocking than offering to pack my lunch for me. She bends down towards me before kissing me on the top of my head. I can feel her lips brush against my hair and it is such a strange, unfamiliar feeling. It sends chills
15

dancing up and down my spine. I wonder if Mom is sick or dying or something, as she
almost never shows me this much affection. I mean, we do have our mother-daughter moments, but those usually only occur when I finish cleaning Mom up and putting her to bed after she’s had a rough night on the town. Even then, she’s almost always still in her warm, cuddly pre-heave, post-slumber drunk stage.
“Mom, you okay?” I ask as she finally heads for the door. She turns slowly, a smile still on her face. “Of course I am, honey. Just…a little tired. Why?”
I shrug. “Just asking.”
She gives me a weird look but says. “Good night, Cam.”
“G’night Mom.”
I watch as she quietly closes the door behind her, as if to not wake a sleeping baby.
When the door is fully shut and I can hear the familiar creaking of the floor boards announcing Mom’s decent down the stairs, I turn off the lights, crawl onto my mattress and squirm under the old, faded quilt, careful to not disturb the still sleeping Sock.
While I await for sleep to drop in and consume me whole, I cant help but wonder if I’ll actually be able to fit in at St. Patrick‘s tomorrow. Scratch that. I don’t have to wonder. I pretty much know I wont. If I couldn’t fit into, like, ten different schools all across the country, then no way in hell am I going to be able to fit in at St. Patrick’s. That’s a given.
On the plus side, at least I’m not one of those people who are so impossibly unrealistic that they keep telling themselves “This place will be different” and fantasizing about how many friends they will make, if they’ll fit into the popular set on the first day, if they‘ll be the type of person everyone would immediately jump to be friends with…I am definitely above all that delusional crap. I mean, who’d wanna be friends with a bad-ass girl with a cheap haircut who is used to living in slums and ghettos? No one, that’s who. That’d be like social suicide to the max.
As for looks wise, I doubt I’m going to be able to fit into that department either. I mean, I look exactly like one of those scraggy run-away teens that you always see on bad made-for TV movies. Probably because of my cheap, DIY haircut.
Life is so unfair to us un-pretty people. What I mean is, why cant I be striking and beautiful like Mom? I’m her daughter after all. What the hell happened to me? But then again, maybe my dad (whoever the hell he was), was an ugly-as-fuck, hideous pig. That would make a lot of sense as to why I don’t look like a super model like Mom. Though to be truly honest, I cant exactly picture Mom doing an ugly dude. He’d have to have been pretty damn hot for Mom to even have acknowledged the poor guy. Stupid, confusing family jeans. They makin’ de no sense…

2

That night, I got pretty much zero sleep. And it wasn’t like I didn’t have a legit reason or anything, because I did. School and fitting in. Mom finding us a place to crash. Mom’s constant fights with Grandma. I mean, there’s only so much a girl can handle at once.
I cant be Super Cam 24/7. Even Super Man had his moments, right?
And yes, I did cry a bit, in the beginning, though I soon stopped, not exactly wanting my face to be all red and disgusting and blotchy when I woke up. If it hadn’t been for that last minute thought, I probably would’ve gone on bawling my eyes out all night.
And of course it didn’t help at all with the constant howling of coyotes or wolves or whatever the hell was making those wailing noises outside somewhere, probably deep
within the dense forest at the back of Grandma‘s house. Obviously I was pretty freaked when I’d first heard them, as no wolves or coyotes live in the city (and so God help me if there was…). But eventually, sometime after midnight, I got accustomed to their mournful baying. It was sort of beautiful even, fitting perfectly with my mood, despite the fact that they were depriving me from some much needed snoozing. The fact was, I didn’t fall asleep until they finally shut up at around two oh clock, something I would‘ve never had to deal with back in Toronto. Oh the times they are a changin’…

3

I am roused from a deep sleep to the sound of a mosquito whining in my left ear and Grandma Edith coaxing in the right.
“Camilla? Camilla! Time to get up and get ready for your first day of school.”
Honestly, did she really need to add that part about it being my first day of school? As if I hadn’t already spent half the night thinking of that.
Grandma brusquely snaps the blinds open, sending bright sunlight streaming into the room. My eyes sting from the sudden light.
“Ack.” I groan, grabbing my pillow and pulling it over my head to block out the light.
“C’mon, Camilla. Up and at ‘em. Cant be late on your first day…”
ARGH! I am just about dying to scream at the top of my lungs, Stop saying those words!
I lift the pillow up, careful to lift it bit by bit so I can gradually get used to the almost impossibly bright sunlight. That way, I’ll have a lesser chance at having to face it all at once and therefore risk having a good blinding.
The noisy mosquito darts between us. I can already begin to feel the goose bumps forming on my bare arms, thanks to the damn air conditioning vent. It’s fucking September and I’m freezing. I hug myself, rubbing my arms frantically in a desperate attempt to get warm
“Up, up, up. Hurry and get ready so you can come down for breakfast.”
I can hear Grandma leaving the room, her voice droning on as she goes thumping down the stairs in her fuzzy threadbare slippers, before heading into the kitchen below.
I yawn and stretch before snuggling back into my pillow. I am in absolutely no hurry to get up. And why should I be? The earlier I get up, the earlier I’ll have to begin what will probably be one of the worst days of my life.
A few more minutes of rest, I decide. That’s what I need. I’ll float back to sleep; heavenly, luxurious, delicious sleep…
The demonic mosquito attacks, sinking it’s needle nose into my forehead.
“Son of a -!”
17

I leap from the bed and - thunk - crack my head right on the sloped ceiling. Seriously, is it just me, or is the ceiling lower than it’d been last night? It’s either that, or I’d grown another good inch or two over night which - technically speaking- is impossible to achieve in under twelve hours. Hmmm…perhaps not.
I sit back down onto the mattress, wide awake now and shivering, my forehead no doubt already sporting two lumps - one from the mosquito, one from the ceiling. Right. Wonderful start to my very first real day in Deep River. Not. If I was one of those people who had a belief in the power of Karma, I would so not be getting up at all today. Too bad I don’t, huh?
Best get ready then. I hurriedly get to my feet and pad out of my room and down the hall, my feet slapping against the wooden floor before walking into the Mr. Clean-worthy tiled guest bathroom that I share with Mom.
“Hey there, gorgeous.” I muse to myself as I squint at my reflection in the mirror. It’s kind of ironic seeing as at this very moment, I’m anything but gorgeous. I look like I’m the fucking Crypt Keeper. Thank de Lord for my bangs though, because they are able to conveniently conceal the two lumps beginning to form on my forehead.
When I finally finish brushing my teeth, washing up and applying my makeup, I return to my room. I pull a black tank top over my bra and wiggle out of my pajama pants. I step into Mom’s blue jeans, the ones with the holes in the knees. They ride low on my hips, hugging them perfectly.
I then hastily throw on the button-up plaid shirt over my black tank top. I leave all but the top three buttoned. I speedily give myself a good look in the antique full-length mirror in the far corner of my room, beside the closet . I figure I look decent enough, kind of like punk rocker meets school-girl chick.
“Cam?” Grandmas voice calls up the stairs, “Today.”
I make a face towards the door, instead heading towards my desk where I’d plunked down my Army-surplus bag the night before. I heftily shoulder it before giving a absent-minded glance out the dust encrusted window. The sun is shining, the birds are cheerfully chirping their heads off… Mrs. Armbrooster‘s poodle is barking at something outside…So God help me if I don’t strangle the white fluff-ball by the end of the week.
“Camilla? Now, please!”
“Okay, I’m coming!” I holler back. Sighing, I leave the window and cross the room towards the door. Better get downstairs before Grandma’s blood pressure gets too high, or worse…
When I barrel into the kitchen, Grandma is waiting.
“Sit down and eat.” she orders, setting a bowl of cheerios, a spoon and a glass of orange juice on the kitchen table for me. “Your mother just went to the corner store to buy more of those cancer sticks.” She adds tightly, explaining Mom’s absence.
I quickly sit down, digging my spoon into the cheerios. Grandma sits across from me, a steaming red mug in her wrinkled hands, filled with what I can only guess to be coffee.
“Excited?” Grandma asks conversationally, obviously forcing a smile for my benefit. She

18

flashes a whole set of pearly whites at me. Too perfect to be her real teeth, that’s for sure. Methinks Grandma invested some major moola in a good set of dentures. Maybe as much as she invested in that terrible bee-hive of a perm she’s got balancing on her head. Her false toothed smile translates; I’m trying to be nice, even though I know you think my mashed potatoes taste like shit. For your sake, you damn well better try to play along…
“Um…yes.” I reply, mouth full of cheerio goodness. My “Yes” comes out sounding like “Yesh”.
“You really shouldn’t worry about fitting in,” she goes on, as if I hadn’t said anything, “Deep River is made up of so many nice people. Probably some of the nicest in the world. I’m sure their children are no different.”
Great philosophy, I want to say. Obviously you weren’t bullied when you were a kid. I take a sip of the orange juice. Ugh. Pulp . Who buys orange juice with pulp anymore?
“Maybe we could put you into a class so you could meet more people. What do you think of dance?”
I honest-to-God choke. “Gak!”
God forbid if me and Mom stay in Deep River long enough for Grandma to attempt to put me up to that sort of torture.
“Cam?” Grandma looks concerned. “Are you alright?”
I’m sure as hell she’s faking the whole concerned bit. No doubt Grandma would positively love to see me keel over and die because of some hapless cheerio.
I take another sip of orange juice, grimacing at the pulp.
“Yeah. Fine. Just about the whole dance idea …”
“Yes?”
“Well, um, I’m not exactly what you’d call a “dance person“. I mean, sure, dance is great for a lot of people, just not me. Me and dance…we tend not to get along. Y’ know?”
No, Grandma doesn’t know. I can totally tell by the confused look on her face.
“Look,” I begin. “I’m all for dance... If I was by myself I’d be all over it. I’m just not into the whole doing it in front of people thing. Kay, Grandma?”
“Oh, but I think you’d be perfect for dance.” she prompts, “You’ve got those long, slender legs and your deportation is excellent for ballet. You know your mother was in ballet when she was your age.”
Yeah. Right. I mean, Mom. A ballerina? Grandma’s gotta be shitting me.
I sigh, exasperated. Besides, doesn’t she know that girls with punk hair don’t do ballet?
“But if you don’t want to, well, I’m not going to force you,” Grandma gives in. I am actually surprised that she doesn’t push it further. I wonder if there’s something in the water since she’s beginning to show the same borderline weirded-out affectionate symptoms as Mom. “Then what about an art class?”
I actually laugh. “I couldn’t paint to save my life.”
“Okay…what about knitting? You could come and join my little knitting group on Tuesday and Thursday evenings…”
She’s joking right? She has to be joking.
“My fingers tend to be uncoordinated.” It’s a lame excuse, but no way in hell is anyone going to catch me dead with a pair of knitting needles in my hand.
19

“Swimming, then?”
“I’ve watched Jaws nearly fifty times, Grandma.” I say, crossing my arms in front of my
chest, “Does that answer your question?”
Now it’s Grandma’s turn to sigh. “Cam, I just want you to meet people. Fit in. Get involved while you and your mother are staying here...”
“Grandma, I really appreciate that, but I think I can do that enough at school. You know, meeting people and getting involved and all that.” Not. “I don’t need any classes or anything…Everything will be fine.”
Grandma taps her long, blood red acrylic nails on the side of her mug, creating a ting-ing sound “Well, if you’re sure…”
Trust me,” I say, taking another spoonful of fruit cheerios, “I’m sure. Everything’ll be great. Just great.” Phht. Lets see how long that attitude lasts.
2
My eyes widen considerably when I first see the school that Grandma expects to go to for the next God-knows how long. The parking lot is crammed with yellow school buses teeming with students, a few beat up Toyotas and a couple of Hondas, even a mini van or two. The flashiest car in the entire place is probably a red Mercedes Benz, ironically parked beside an honest-to-God BMW motorbike . Huh. Who knew that wealthy people lived in Deep River?
My mouth starts to taste like pennies, a sure warning sign that I am going to puke. The sudden, violent craving for nicotine kicks in, not exactly helping the situation.
The considerably small red-brick buildings look unfriendly and institutionalized. Tangles of vines swirl up the school’s walls all the way to the roof and pine trees surround them at the base. I figure the excessive greenery is natures way of making the school look like some kind of wannabe preparatory institution, no doubt a weak attempt to disguise the fact that the school is on boarder-line welfare. A weed-choked, newly mown lawn spills out in front of the school’s main entrance.
While Grandma drives into the school’s parking lot, all I can do is stare numbly out the Buicks passenger window with that oh-so famous line from The Wizard of Oz playing over and over in my head like a stupid, catchy commercial theme; "Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore". Hmmm. Maybe they should change it to; “Cam, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Toronto anymore.” Much more appropriate.
The instant the Buicks engine shuts off, Grandma is on the move, unbuckling her seatbelt, grabbing her monstrous faux-leather purse and opening the door. I, on the other hand, am completely reluctant, taking my time with grabbing my bag and pretending to get my seatbelt caught in the door. Grandma stands waiting impatiently, hands on hips, Wonder Woman-style, all the while snapping her sugar-free Dentyne Ice. This woman is definitely on a mission.
I smile at her apologetically as I give the passenger door a good slam and swing my bag over my shoulder. She sighs, pushing her plastic, leopard-print sun glasses further up her nose.
“Okay,” she says, beginning to strut her stuff towards the school’s front doors with me meekly trailing after her. “Let’s go.”

20

Chapter Two
St. Patrick’s
“

Inside the school’s main office, it is brightly lit and air-conditioned. It’s diminutive; the room is cut cleanly in half by a long counter that’s cluttered with black metal baskets brimming with assorted papers, brochures, notices and attendance slips. Various awards and plaques clutter the walls. Across from the desk is a waiting area where a set of stiff-looking, padded wooden chairs are set up against the wall in an orderly state. The newly waxed tiles beneath Grandmas feet and mine is an ugly, puke-inducing green with orange flecks. Yes, orange flecks on green tiles! This is so not helping my nausea. A large wooden cross is nailed to the wall above the chairs. I grimace.
There are a dozen or so individual desks behind the counter. The closest one is staffed by a pudgy women with a bad perm. She is wearing black, thick, horned rimmed glasses. Unbelievably long nails tap diligently away at a key board.
The woman glances up with little interest. No doubt she’d rather be doing a Big Mac than doing this. I cant help but notice that she kinda resembles Bubbles from Trailer Park Boys.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone bored.
“Yes, actually,” Grandma informs the secretary primly. “I am Edith Olsen. I was here to register my granddaughter, Camilla Olsen, last week. We’re here so she can pick up her schedule for her first semester as well as any other papers she may require on her first day at St. Patrick‘s.”
If the woman had some sort of light of realization or familiarity in her eyes, I totally missed it because I’m too busy staring at her nails to even glance up. They curve like ten scythes. I mean, they look fricken lethal! I pity the poor schmuck who’d try to steal this lady’s purse. He’s in for one hell of a clawing.
I vaguely wonder if she can do anything besides typing at a computer; like, can she carry a box? Can she dial a phone, something her occupation no doubt requires? Can she wash her hair? Can you get fired for having your nails too long, especially since weapons of any kind aren’t allowed any where near school grounds? Does that count as a disability? I glance down at my own chewed up finger nails.
“Of course,” said Long-Nails lady. I still can’t take my eyes away from her grotesque talons, even as she goes haphazardly searching through the disorganized pile of papers and documents on her desk. Someone has got to get this lady a filing cabinet or something…
“Here we are,” she announces, finally resurfacing. She plunks what looked like a schedule down on the desk, along with a carefully detailed map of the school. That’s definitely come in handy by the end of the day, I figure.
“Please sign here, here and here, Mrs. Olsen. This is to confirm your grand daughters registration.” says Long-Nails lady, taking out yet another form from her desk before grabbing a pen and indicating to various black signature lines. “When you are finished, you are free to go while I go over Camilla’s schedule.”
21

Grandma signs line after dotted-line with her scribbled signature. When that’s done, she brusquely turns to me, having finally completed her mission. She’s free to go.
Grandma hugs me after a brief moments hesitation. I feel no real warmth in her embrace,
though I get a good whiff of her scent; a mix of Lise Waiters’ “Snow” perfume and cabbage gone bad. I force back the reflex to gag.
“Okay, Camilla. You remember the route home, right?”
I nod, knowing that’s what she’s expecting. She smiles, flashing her scarily perfect, false-toothed smile.
“Good. Your mother and I will be home when you get home after school so don’t worry about a key or anything. Good luck. And -,” she adds in a whisper, aware that the nosy secretary is listening intently from behind the counter, “- please do your mother and I a favour and try not to get into any trouble. Please.”
She releases me from her suffocating grasp. “Kay,” is all I say before Grandma turns her back on me, all business again. I watch as she heads back through the school’s main doors, with her enormous bag banging erratically against her leg. She doesn’t look back. I wonder if it would embarrass her to scream “Have fun at Hooters, Grandma!“ Instead, I decide to be a good little girl and resist temptation. She doesn’t look back. When I’m sure she’s gone, I dutifully turn back to Long-Nails lady and lean my elbows on the desk, awaiting orders.
She goes through my class schedule with me, highlighting the best routes to each classroom. The map looks pretty simple, thank God. St. Patrick’s only has one floor and is kind of designed like a big square, meaning that I’ll eventually get back to where I’d originally started, which will be kind of convenient, making the whole concept of getting terribly lost over all difficult. This is a definite plus. After Long-Nails lady finishes going over every last detail of where I am supposed to go and how I am supposed to get there and by what time, she smiles at me, obviously hoping to reassure me and my beyond out-of-whack nerves. I smile back in false cheerfulness, hiding the fact that I feel like I’d just signed my own death warrant or something.
I begin heading for my first class, constantly glancing down at my make-shift map and praying fervently that I wont accidentally bump into anyone. Students have already begun to fill up the school’s narrow, claustrophobic-inducing halls. I figure if I can get to class early enough, before the halls became monstrously jammed with people, I wont have to experience the unwanted agony of pushing and shoving my way through an unfamiliar crowd. It’d be like the streets of Toronto all over again, where I’d learned to become an expert at ramming and jostling people out of my way. I don’t exactly want to put that talent into practice at school just yet ...
I don’t have to walk far to get to my first class. I glance down at my schedule. Mr. Greene, College Math..
Oh shit, I think, inwardly groaning. Exactly what I want to learn about first thing in the morning. Not. My mouth starts to taste like pennies again as I follow a dark haired girl through the door. The craving for nicotine is suddenly doubled.
The classroom is medium sized, with a couple dozen desks placed in rows of five. A large, balding man wearing a geeky looking sweater-vest sits at a large desk at the front of the class room. Mr. Greene, no doubt. He doesn’t even bother to glance up from the book he seems to be so deeply engrossed in. I actually find myself musing that he seems to have
22

an almost uncanny resemblance to a sort of deranged hobbit; y’ know like that fat one that lives in the Goonies? I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as I take a seat at a desk at the back of the classroom, in an effort to blend in. This way, I’ll hopefully go completely unnoticed, therefore preventing myself from being the hapless victim of endless gawking; a full proof strategy I’ve learned from years of attending numerous schools. Who said evictions and moving constantly doesn’t teach you anything useful?
I wait impatiently for class to begin, snapping my gum irritably while various students file in and obediently take their seats. When everyone is finally seated and the bell rings, I glance up to see Mr. Greene put down his book and begin to address the class. Finally…
“Okey dokey, people. Settle down, settle down.”
A gaggle of girls near the front of the class giggle. Mr. Greene clears his throat for attention and the girls fall silent.
“Alrighty, listen up people, and listen well. As some of you may know from last year, my name is Mr. Greene. I’m going to be your math teacher from the beginning of today, to the last day before finals, which is exactly five months and twenty eight days away starting precisely now. But before we get into the main swing of things, I’m going to make something very clear to all of you ; I can be your best friend, or I can be your worst enemy. Choose now - and I warn you - choose carefully because your decision could either make or break your final mark…”
Oh God. He’s one of those teachers...
Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.
I guess I probably should feel ashamed to admit that I nearly fall asleep as hobbit-like Mr. Greene begins a lengthy speech on how math is probably the most fascinating as well as the most useful subject we will ever learn (we‘ve all watched A Beautiful Mind, right?); how at this very moment, the entire class has a one hundred percent, but how well we do during the course will alter it accordingly; how we should always try our best no matter what...blah, blah, blah. I pray to God that the rest of my teachers wont end up being like this quack.
“Right. Now that I‘ve made that all crystal-clear to you,” he says, finally, breaking out of his mind-numbing mantra, “ I see we have a new face...”
Oh no, I think, beginning to instinctively cringe in my seat. No fucking way is this dude talking about me. No way…
My ass-of-a-teacher grins straight at me. Oh God, he’s talking about me! I totally let myself panic. I feel the heat go rising up into my cheeks, probably making me look as red as a fucking tomato. I can already feel the sweat beginning to form at the nape of my neck. This is so not cool...
All I can do is watch in horror as Mr. Greene glimpses down at a sheaf of paper on his desk before glancing back up at me and my no doubt beyond-horrified expression.
“Ms. Camilla Olsen, I presume.”
Somebody shoot me right now.

I thought that by sitting at the back of the classroom, people wouldn’t even bother with the effort to glance back and gape at me. Boy, was a I wrong. I am surprised no one got whip-lash, they all looked back at me so damn fast. I internally give myself a good swift kick for not having better blended myself in. To say that it feels like I am dying a thousand cruel and unusual deaths as about twenty pairs of eyes take me in and size me
up, like I’m some kind of antique or something that belongs in a the Smithsonian Museum would be an apt statement.. Now I know how freaks at side-shows feel…
“Um, it’s Cam, actually.” I say. My voice sounds small and meek to my ears.
“Well, why don’t you come up here, Cam, and introduce yourself to your fellow classmates? C’mon, don’t be shy.”
This is exactly what I was afraid of. Me and public confrontations never go well together. Ever. No exceptions. I mean, people have fears of water, of spiders, of flying...Public speaking is my personal numer-o un-o fear. For me, it’s the exact
equivalent of being an arachnophobic and having a bunch of tarantula’s dumped on your head. In the end, it’s definitely not a pretty sight. It’s not that I’m a shy person or anything…I just don’t exactly know when to shut up; meaning I usually end up spewing something out that I know I will regret later.
“Umm…okay.”
I stand, feeling my knees beginning to wobble uncontrollably as I slowly make my walk of shame through the gauntlet of desks. I swear I can feel everyone’s eyes bearing down on me. It’s total agony.
Oh Lord, please do smote and strike me dead, I pray silently. Unfortunately, God must be busy else where as I make it to the front of the class room in one piece, but just barely. I turn to face what looks like an entire sea of people, each and everyone with their focus trained entirely on yours truly.
“Go on.” prompts my tormentor (a. k. a Mr. Greene). “Tell us about where your from, how many schools you’ve been to before, why you moved…”
Oooh boy. This is definitely gonna take a while.
“Well, I, um, I lived in Toronto for my entire life.” The itsy bitsy Cam climbs up the lying spout…
I notice a few people raise their eyebrows in interest. If I told them I was from the planet Uranus I don’t think they would’ve looked more surprised. “A-and I’ve been to exactly three schools in the past nine y-years,” I stammer, tripping over my own words. I sound like one of those kids with a wicked speech impediment. Or Mr. Qurrel from Harry Potter. Y’ know, the dude that’s constantly stammering because that evil guy Voldemort is living underneath his turban? At least, I think that’s how it goes…
I take a deep, shaky breathe. “I moved to Deep River with my mom ‘cause my parents just recently got divorced and my mom needed some time to, you know, recuperate. So she decided we move in with my grandma.”
Down comes the rain and washes Cam-the-lying-spider out…
Okay, so I’ll admit I’m totally lying to my entire Biology class, which probably counts as a deadly sin some where in the Good Book. And I’ll admit my half-witted fib is along the lines of pitiful and not making much sense. I mean, seriously. Who moves to their hometown and free loads off their relatives just because of one bad relationship? I guess it’s a pretty poor lie, even for me, who is like the reigning queen of making up BS. We’re
talking about someone who’d made it all the way through Mrs. Caldwell’s chemistry
class in grade ten without ever figuring out what the hell a periodic table was. With a B minus, thank you very much.
“So, umm, that’s about it, I think.” I finish lamely, before timidly turning to Mr. Greene. “Can I sit down now?”
“Yes you may, Cam, and, may I add, it’s very nice to meet you. And wow! Three
schools. That oughta be a record…”
Someone turn the demonic hobbit off. Now! I think, just about stumbling back to my seat at the back of the class room. And it’s totally obvious that this dude doesn’t get out much…I mean only three schools? That’s less than about half the schools I’ve attended!
“Alrighty, class, now that we’ve initiated yet another member to our growing family at
St. Pat’s, let’s please focus our attention onto the fascinating complexity of the Pythagorean theorem...”
Yet another member to our growing family at St. Pat’s?! God, what am I in now, the Brady Bunch or something? That, or some sort of twisted, cult-like organization…
I mean, what kind of a name for a school is St. Patrick’s anyway? I’ve heard of St. Patrick’s day…that wonderful day that comes around once a year in March when all the Irish (and non-Irish) folks head out to the Irish sounding pubs (hint; they usually start with O’-insert-Irish-sounding-name-here) all over the country and drink shot after shot of whiskey or gin or whatever Irish sounding alcohol there is out there. Wait…so I’m in a school that’s named after a holiday that celebrates the fine art/hobby/sport /past time of drinking? Dude!
I am interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of the classroom door opening - and then loudly slamming shut- nearly scaring everyone in the classroom completely shitless. I turn and crane my neck round to get a look at the recent disrupter-of-the-relative-peace.
Heeeeello.